


Stigmata of Absence

by T J Feardorcha (MonsterTesk)



Series: The Sounds of Pulling Heaven Down [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Existentialism is only good when you're drunk, F/M, Introspection, Rumination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 13:56:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonsterTesk/pseuds/T%20J%20Feardorcha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stigmata: A mark of disgrace associated with a particular circumstance, quality, or person.<br/>Origin: late 16th century. (denoting a mark made by pricking or branding).</p><p> </p><p>He can trace it over his chest, constellations of nonexistence.<br/>It's (not)written on every inch of his skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stigmata of Absence

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for vague references to past child abuse. Also vague hints that they're having sex.

Scott always knows what’s not there. It’s (not) written on his skin in ways that will never fade, no matter if the marks that were visible to others aren’t there anymore. He has a constellation of hints that don’t exist, written in his very being but no one asks about them. Scott would question it but he’s too busy trying to bury these things he can’t ignore.

Allison traces her fingers along his jaw but she doesn’t have to, to remind him of how crooked it is, of how crooked his very bones are. Scott always knows that he was formed wrong— some paternal punch to the teeth that wired his teeth shut and took away his ability to consume.

Her hair tickles his chest when she kisses his ear and sometimes he thinks she purposely avoids the scar on his cheek as if she thinks that touching it will bring up memories of how it was formed.

It’s only one burning scar in the sky, one speck of light in a view otherwise obscured by ozone. Scott has noted its fading, has measured it against his fingers until he found the one whose nail could scrape across the surface, not too wide, not too narrow. He has found his middle finger is no longer suited for the endeavor.

Now that he is the thing with tooth and claw.

Scott closes his eyes when Allison’s lips graze down the tendon of his neck and he contracts into a universe of brilliant chiaroscuro, drifting in its own existence like invisible perfume in his lungs. Allison smells like lilies and laundry soap and suave shampoo (the ‘rain’ scented one). He kisses her skin and tries to forget the scents of the people who make her, an indelible sign in red and white with a message of parental interdiction. Scott has a lot of practice with those. He has been forbidden not to forget to breath, a command that had become more militaristic until its disappearance. Scott hadn’t realized how much he could miss the sounds of someone not understanding him until it happened.

Now it’s like the inhabitance of Hundred Acre woods all join together to save him from Skull when he was just trying to tell them he was going to school. Only in reverse.  

Allison sighs and moves above him, a body crossing the constellations of things not there that Scott knows perfectly. She says his name and shudders, her hands spread across his chest, an event horizon of singular sensations. A quasar of things he won’t ever tell fly behind his eyes and try to push their way out of his mouth. He wonders if this is what black holes taste like.

Allison lies on top of him, chest heaving, hands moving. Scott bends his neck to kiss the top of her head. His heart is in the back of his throat and it feels so heavy it’s pulling down everything, a sensation almost like sucking, curling into itself and churning, becoming heavier and heavier until it will inevitably consume everything.

She falls asleep and Scott holds her tight. If he were less selfish, he’d let her go so she didn’t get sucked into his event horizon, permanently stretching and spreading to accommodate the weight of things not there, eventually sucked into a galaxy she has never been in, one that’s cold and new in that it’s filled with old things from different places, different memories but ultimately all exactly the same.

It’s almost like Woman at the Garden or the Bell Tower of Bazincourt. Renoir and Pissarro joined forces to make something that makes sense at a distance but just becomes a constellation of dark water streaks in different colors the closer anyone gets. Allison thinks it’s like Irises but if he had to pick a Van Gogh to explain this all it would be Undergrowth With Two Figures. No one can see the stars when they look at it, just trees, brush, and two people but Scott has always known what’s not there. 


End file.
